A Walk in Cliche
by WhoAteThePixies
Summary: Two people, one cupboard and a mysteriously locked door. R/H One-Shot


**Disclaimer:** Don't Own, Don't Sue.

**A/N: **This is unbetaed so all mistakes are my own. Feedback is always welcome and much appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

This wasn't happening.

It just couldn't. It's was something that only happened in a cheesy Hollywood romcom (that she may have possibly watched because it was the only thing on television). It did not occur in real life. Not to real people. But the forceful twisting of the doorknob only confirmed one thing: inspirations for predictable plot lines do have a real world source. She was firmly trapped in a cliché – with her boss none the less. And after he couldn't get the bloody thing open either, she resulted to pounding on the door and shouting for assistance.

"Ruth."

There's a slight sternness to his voice, which stills her hand and makes her look directly at him. She is powerless to do otherwise. She tells herself that her flushed face is to do with her fruitless efforts to get them out of here. Nothing to do with his unflinching gaze, focused solely on her. It is definitely the source of her sore palm at least. She's unable to recall how long she was hammering the stupid wood for, but the expression on his face tells her that it's gone on for long enough. Perhaps a little too long. His next words only emphasise this point: "I don't think there's anyone left out there to help us."

All she manages to do is nod dumbly in reply, shoulders sagging slightly. On his lips is a hint of a teasing smile as he adds, "I think the others find our working hours unreasonable. I have no idea why."

This whole thing is unfair, and she's not about to give in and follow the script. Her life is not someone else's plot line. And it might not be an abstract conception, like fate, who's doing the writing. If she thinks about it, she can swear that she heard a faint Jo-like giggle, followed by a Zaf-sounding shush when she first tried the doorknob on the inexplicitly shut cupboard door. God help them if they have something to do with this mess, because the second she gets out –

"Ruth-"

Whatever the next words might have been were pushed aside by the blowing light bulb and simultaneous shriek. Which happened to have escaped from her lips. Though she's grateful that he can no longer see her, for it's not only the dark that's hindering her from regaining her lost dignity. All the while, he's softly laughing at her and she doesn't need a light to see the look on his face. She suppresses the urge to land a punch on his shoulder; at a time like this, that could only lead to further trouble. Instead, she slowly slides down the door, grasping her knees to her chest. She's determined just to sit in the dark silence and wait for this whole thing to be over. If the ground would be so kind to open up into a her-shaped hole, she would thankfully dive right in. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem likely to happen any time soon.

"Ruth?" Her ears pick up the edge of concern in his words.

"I said cheap light bulbs were false economy," She mutters the first thing that comes to mind, mainly for his benefit.

"And it seems they're cut down on the use of heating too. Is there nothing sacred in the face of budget cuts?" Until he mentioned it, she'd been oblivious to the temperature. Her mind had been fully focused on escaping and now it's all too aware of the chill. And the fact her body's shivering. Damn.

"Come here."

Her gaze is redirected from her stocking covered knees towards him. Now her eyes are accustomed to the gloom; the small slip of light seeping in from beneath the door illuminates the faint outline of his form, sitting at the opposite end of this small space. No more than four or five steps away – though she thinks this might be the safest distance she could hope for at the moment. She remembers learning in an English literature course she took at university that plots could either be driven forward by external events, or by the characters themselves. Either way, she's going to do nothing to encourage this. She tries to keep her voice even, although she knows he doesn't believe her when she announces, "I'm fine."

"Ruth." She knows that warning tone so well that it could almost be considered a friend.

She matches it with her own. "Harry."

"I very much doubt that anyone will be here to rescue us any time soon. So I think it's best to assume that we're stuck here for the night. We've just got to make do, which includes keeping warm, so come here."

She doesn't move.

He rewards her with an exasperated sight. "Just stop being such a stubborn old mule and come over here."

"A mule?" She chokes out in shock.

"Well… look I'm sorry, just…just do it…please?"

Her resolve finally collapses. It's to be expected that there's an object, obscured by the dark, lurking in her path. An object she just happens to trip over, sending her into a sprawling mess, with her boss' lap just happening to break her fall. Before either of them can fully compute what has just happened, she's scrambling away into the nearest corner with a speed she never knew she possessed. "Sorry!"

"Here." He's holding out his jacket towards her, and she's in no doubt that he'll remain in this position until she takes it. So she does. The other option isn't worth the hassle.

"Thank you." God, it's big and warm and smells wonderfully of him.

She rewards his thoughtfulness by inching a little closer, in the hopes that her actions will show that it's being trapped in a cupboard which is bothering her. Not being trapped in a cupboard with him – although it's not helping matters. This move, however, is quickly regretted when he moves closer as well and places an arm around her. Her body stiffens in response, as all her sense suddenly become painfully alert.

"You were still shivering," He informs her, "Just try to relax, I won't bite."

She feels a shiver running down her spine and prays he'll also blame it on the cold and not his tone of voice. Because of course it has nothing to do with that. Even with this noted, she's still finding it impossible to relax. It's possibly more difficult than the time she had to lie to Angela Wells about her stepbrother. The recollection of that little event drags up unwanted memories. Like the last time they were this close. In the corridor. Alone. His intense gaze pinning her to the wall, whilst she tried to concentrate on anything but the feel of his breath on her skin. Or the warmth radiating from his body to hers. Or his smell filling the tiny space between them. Or how easy it would be to just lean forward and –

No!

"I'm sorry?"

Bugger. Apparently she said that out loud. Hasn't he realised that his presence has the effect of reducing her intellect to mush? "Nothing. It's nothing."

"Nothing?" He isn't convinced and her brain is screaming at her to say something else; anything to redeem herself.

"I've still got the MD reader. I just haven't got round to returning it yet. I'm going to. I really am. It's just it's not quite in the same condition as it was before. Fidget, my cat, Fidget, has taken a fancy to it as a play toy. So it's covered in scratches and bite marks. Sorry."

She swears that she can feel the air particles shifting as he raises an eyebrow. "Well perhaps you should keep it then."

"I can't do that. It would be stealing," She blurts out before she has time to stop herself.

"And what do you call it now?"

"Borrowing?" This reply is nothing more than a sheepish murmur.

"If you feel that morally troubled by the matter, maybe I should take the cost of it from your pay?" Despite the serious tone, she knows he's teasing her. Baiting her. And doing a ridiculously good job of it, as she can only splutter syllables in response.

"I could always pay for-" He begins after a pause.

"No you couldn't do-"

"As a gift for Fidget of course."

"Right. Of course. Right," She agrees dumbly, the last of the fight in her fleeing.

"It's probably best for the MD reader to stay with you anyway. It's probably so used to being round you, that it wouldn't know what to do without you. Wouldn't want to be without you."

Her mind is whispering to her that he's no longer speaking on behalf of an inanimate object. She ignores this. Along with the pressure on her skin, informing her that he's holding her closer. And the feel of ghostly fingertips playing with the ends of her hair.

He shushes her when she attempts to say something coherent. "Try to get some sleep."

"I don't feel tired."

"Just because you don't feel tired, doesn't mean you don't need the rest." He tells her, his words strangely soothing. Just as she felt the chill when he mentioned the cold, now her eyelids feel heavy with sleep.

'This kind of power over someone is inhuman.' Is the last thing she thinks, before the darkness envelops her.

***

It takes her mind a few moments to push aside the remnants of sleep and pieces together the puzzle of last night. Like why her bum was distinctly numb this morning. And her back stiff. And why there was an arm around her waist that is definitely not her own. Then it makes all the connections and she's suddenly very awake.

In a cupboard.

Alongside her boss, whom the arm just happens to belong to. And now the door is mysteriously ajar; the light from outside smugly barging in. She can only hope that it felt the need to open on its own. Although, she knows thoughts like that are destined to end in disappointment. She's no longer has the desire to leave here in favour of the grid. Remaining here until everyone forgets, however, is not an option.

"Harry?" She tries gently to stir his still sleeping form. All this achieves in return is an incoherent mumble and his arm pulling her closer still. She tries to wriggle her trapped arm in an attempt nudge him awake. "Harry?"

There's confusion mingled with sleep in his slowly blinking eyes, until memories of the previous night returns to him. Now there's a lazy smile dancing on his lips. Just for her. "Morning."

His voice is husky with dreams and she unconsciously swallows as if to clear it for him. Her body tenses as his hand inches closer to brush the hair away from her face.

Her words freeze the hand: "The door's open."

"Ah." Though this response seems to acknowledge that he understood what she was saying, his actions said otherwise. Well, his lack of action. Arm still holding her. Hand gently cupping her face. His own face unbearably close so she can no longer tell whose breath is whose.

She breaks the spell. "Harry. The door is _open_."

The second he removes his arm, she's dashing towards the light. "Ruth."

She stops, only millimetres shy of the exit, indecision gripping her until she slowly turns to face him. He's looking expectantly at her and she has no idea what he wants from her. Suddenly, she's aware of that fact she's still wearing his jacket.

"Sorry." The apology is synchronised with the removal of the item. He seems reluctant to take it from her. She can't help but examine him more closely now she's able to see him clearly again. His usual smart attire is crumpled, complete with a half untucked shirt, missing tie and top shirt buttons open, giving him a dishevelled look. This image of him is now firmly etched into the depths of her mind, waiting patiently to resurface at any inappropriate moment. Right now, she doubts she looks any better. Unfortunately, there's no logical way to bypass the grid and head to the ladies to sort her appearance out. She's going to have to face her colleagues as she is. As he starts to stand, she knows the time has come to flee. This is her last chance before something else happens. He says her name again in an attempt to stop her, but her determination slices through her willingness to comply.

"I've… I've left my desk light on," She announces as if it's the most important thing in the world right now.

And with that, she's gone.

****

There was an air-vent in the cupboard ceiling – she can picture it so clearly in her mind's eye. If only she'd used that to leave this morning and escape, unnoticed from Thames House. Instead, she's furiously directing all her attention at the stack of paper work on her desk and ignoring the looks. And the whispers. And the knowing smiles. Her ears wander, despite her best efforts, and tune into snippets of hushed conversations. Something about a mobile phone picture circulating the office. Speculation about what happened behind that closed door. Zaf's name continuously being brought up in conjunction with a betting book. If Britain's spooks were idle all the time, the country wouldn't stand a chance.

Some of the braver ones (or more naïve) scuttle over to her desk, using a cup of tea to distract her from their true attentions. She only gives them short, curt answers to any questions they may have, acting busy until they give up and leave. There's now a row of three cups perched forlornly along of her desk. The wiser ones among their 'illustrious brotherhood' (Adam, Ros, Malcolm, Zaf and Jo) keep their distance. This may have to do with the murderous look that she failed to stop spreading across her face when Zaf _innocently_ inquired how she was with a smug grin on his face. He quickly shuffled away, face awash with dread, regardless of the pleasant tone she managed to creep into her reply.

'Illustrious brotherhood' - god, she's hates that phrase. It's too 'old boys' network' for her liking. But _he_ likes it, so she ends up using it also. She realises that her gaze has drifted away the paperwork in her momentary lapse of concentration and is now directed at his office. And he's there, perched on the edge of his desk, staring right back at her. With one finger, he solemnly beckons her over.

She's seized with panic again. This could be important. Something serious could be happening that outweigh any desire she has to keep her distance. Her body switches to autopilot, hand grabbing the nearest file and legs hurrying towards his office. She prays, as she makes her way over, that her movements will go unnoticed or be associated purely with work matters due to the file she's clutching for dear life. She doesn't knock as she enters; she knows she should, but it's just habit and he doesn't expect her to do it any longer. He motions for her to sit on the chair in front of him and she does so, praying her body isn't shaking from the nerves jittering through her system. She chooses to look beyond him, rather than be confronted by his eyes and notices two mugs sitting beside a paper bag on his desk. He picks up the bag and slowly removes two muffins from it.

"I think a small discussion of revenge over breakfast is in order, don't you?" He states, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips, as he offers her a mug and a muffin. She accepts them both, along with the role as his co-conspirator, a grin on her face for the first time that day.

They really should have known better.


End file.
